A chunk of yesterday vanished as I madly combed the universe for affordable seats to Bruce Springsteen’s extended Broadway extravaganza, verified fan code I’ve been hoping to get for months in hand. My dad’s love for Bruce Springsteen predates my existence. They’re from the same nook of New Jersey. Springsteen is special. When I first heard about this show it sounded like it’d be such a treat for him. Prior to receiving my special code text and sinking into the Ticketmaster void, my definition of an “affordable” price to a live performance with a super high production value had 2 digits. How quaint. Two digits would barely cover Ticketmaster’s processing fees.

But what’s money when you harbor a financial lunatic inside you?

Years ago, Raj and I set out on one of many apartment hunts. The journey taught me how much I know about budgeting under pressure. Back then we lived in a nightmare with a busted front door that didn’t lock. I nailed the fire escape window shut after some dude squeaked open the window and started climbing in while I was working from home, about two feet away. The lopsided floors imbued each sleepy morning with confused panic. Are we tipping over?

Apartment hunting in Brooklyn on a normal budget is fun if you enjoy exploring the very edges of livability. One real estate agent with slick hair found his bliss by showing us places further and further beyond our budget. By the end of the day, we’re on the balcony of a duplex with a lovely view of Greenwood Cemetery. Raj went back to searching Craigslist while I arranged pretend patio furniture on our magical balcony because I can work three jobs. I want to work three jobs. Anything for you, Duplex with radiant floor heating.

Yesterday, that lunatic returned. In a matter of seconds, getting my dad tickets to see Bruce Springsteen morphed from a wouldn’t-that-be-fun to my life’s mission. The reason for my existence. No $75 tickets? So began the hunt. No $200 seats left on any date? And up and up jumped my budget odometer. Ah, a $400 seat way off to the side and a $300 ticket way up there for his friend. They can wave to each other and everything. Score! What a steal!

To buy or not to buy? I put those seats in my cart with 5 Ticketmaster minutes to decide. How did I go from willing to splurge on 2 tickets for a dream total of $150-ish+fees to possibly parting with $700+fees for my dad’s only chance to be happy ever. To buy or not to buy? Of course none of my sisters answered their phones to advise while the clock counted down.

King Lear asked his daughters How much do you love me? It didn’t go well. When we were kids the answer was an easy This much with arms wide. That was enough. That’s still enough. I know that. Lunatic doesn’t.

Because it’s Bruce Springsteen and it’s for my dad. He hasn’t seen Springsteen play since before he was a dad, lifeguard by day and hanging around The Saint at night, chatting with Clarence Clemons in the parking lot after shows, telling us what a nice guy he was anytime we heard that sweet saxophone so many years later. The need to put my dad in a seat at this show swelled. Finally, the same part of me that didn’t want to work three jobs to live in a duplex snapped to attention with a simple suggestion to ask if he even wanted to go. I called my dad fully expecting an excited Yes and you were always my favorite.

What I got was Nah. I don’t want to go all they way up there for that.

So now I’m clear. A real show in New Jersey with the full band is a cranky yes. Absolutely. Sitting in a lousy seat in a Broadway theater listening to stories and songs about the working class for $400 is a don’t you dare pay that much money.

The effort wasn’t fruitless. I finally harassed my dad into revealing something he actually does want for Christmas. A fruit cake. He loves fruit cakes. The kind he grew up with – dark and fruity with lots of booze. A good one, he felt the need to specify, meaning please don’t bake it yourself. I won’t. I’m still hearing about a cake I baked him in the 90’s. It looked like a cake. Smelled like lasagna and tasted like chocolaty bologna due to a mix-up in the adding savory seasoned oil department. So begins a new hunt.

They’re into week five of Project Slo-Mo Fence Build next door. These are the same neighbors who allowed scaffolding to remain on their building for three years, which was quite fun to walk under late at night. We call them The Fancies because there are children around. It is becoming a wonder, the construction of this fence. The fence itself is more of a notion. Workers do spend hard hours laboring. I know because I work from home and breathe their smoke. Their smoke comes in our window. No matter how many times a day I ask them not to smoke right below our window they smoke right below our window. So I put a fan there. It’s something.

My dad smoked heavily for more than twenty years. He’s a meat and potatoes, black coffee and beets’ll kill ya very grounded man. But he also buys warts off of people. When he couldn’t quit smoking on his own he went to a hypnotist. He said they had a casual conversation and when he left he noticed he didn’t feel like a cigarette. After a few days of not wanting one, he threw his last pack away. That was over ten years ago and he’s never smoked again.

Suggest hypnosis to people trying to quit smoking and most will look at you very differently. Never again will they believe your wand is just a pointer because you suffer from short arms. Plain ordinary Lipton’s tea goes cold unless you take a sip first. All for trying to help.

Apparently you can’t hypnotize people against their will and you really can’t hypnotize them into doing something they don’t want to do. The fence builders don’t seem to want to stop smoking anymore than they seem to want to finish this fence.

I need to go away forever, and if not forever than for a little while. My bf just started a new project so our travel plans are pushed back. Spending a weekend in NJ helping my sister move doesn’t count, but house sitting for my other sister does. It’s like a mini vacation. There are trails, a pool and all their animals! Counter space in the kitchen and quiet everywhere. I’ll be able to see more than three stars at night. No sirens, construction or NYC! Maybe I was a little too excited when they asked me to house sit. At first they thought I’d misunderstood and took it has an invitation to go on their vacation with them. Um, no.

Having my first cold coffee of the year. Why so long since? Because we were out of chicory and cold coffee without chicory would be like Twin Peaks without Dale Cooper. Most stores around here sell a brand of chicory in an orange box, which is really good. We get ours at Puerto Rico coffee company because the place smells like what the whole world should smell like. Plus I pass this store weekly. It just wasn’t top of mind. It took the dread of 90 degree temperatures to finally remind me what’s been missing from my life: Chicory!

Our cold coffee is very strong. We use the coffee sock cold brew jar and fabric filter. Fill it up then stick it in the fridge for 12ish hours. It brews for 12 hours. Perhaps we’ve figured out why it’s so strong, Watson.

I am not picky about coffee as long as it tastes good. Even bodega coffee is forgivable after a taste of something sweet to curb the burnt bitter bites. With cold brew we find the best results come from finely ground grinds and a heaping scoop of chicory. Raj and I had a cup this morning then he left me alone here, defenseless with another 4 cups of the good stuff begging for ice and just screaming my name.

I drank it all.

It does feel strange to turn the AC on in May, but it had to be done. The men outside are very loud. For weeks our fancy neighbors have been making a racket here and there. We were warned there’d be some noise as they were having a fence put in. A fence. There are currently three massive luxury buildings going up around us.

We are no strangers to noise. A fence is nothing. One summer, I helped my dad put up fences around backyard pools. We dug a lot of holes. I remember splinters, lots of Neil Young, blisters, and eating WaWa hoagies with raspberry iced tea on our breaks. I do not remember … jackhammers. They are using jackhammers to break ground. I’m sure they have good reason but help me. For the last few weeks, they show and make a lot of noise for an hour or two then leave. Why they chose this 90+ degree day to work all day is a mystery. Our AC drowns out the noise, but I can’t stop watching them place cinder blocks, measure, dig, smoke.

I’ve been at the window most of the day when I should be working but at first it helped me concentrate. Now it’s like we’re in it together. Yeah, I’m in my air conditioned apartment sipping very strong ice cold coffee rather than breaking a sweat doing stuff, but I almost feel like my watching while bouncing and lifting weights has contributed in some meaningful, essential, what-would-they-do-without-me way. Don’t mention it.

Thinking of wonderful things in the world, I found a Misfits Famous Monsters CD. It was cracked but the moral of the story is this is a glorious album and it’s streamable on Spotify. High energy music is equalizing some of the unexpected coffee effects. Hopefully next time the fence builders look up I won’t be there waving back like a weirdo.

Bozo is in town. Streets around the Hellmouth are fittingly lined with sanitation trucks. Knowing blondie is surrounded by garbage trucks makes me almost as joyous …

as all the lovely comic books hot off the press and ready for our eyeballs.

This Saturday is Free Comic Book Day, the happiest day. Repeat: If it’s for free, it’s for me. Every year I find a few gems for my nieces. Last year, Science Comics! were a hit. This year they’ve requested stories with … capes. I tried so hard to steer them from superheroes and I failed big time. So instead of fighting it we’re making them capes to go with the reading.

This is my second round of cape-making for them. The first round didn’t turn out as I pictured them in my head. Still don’t know what I did wrong, possibly sewing them by hand in poor lighting. This time will be different because I begged my sister to sew them with her machine. She asked for the pattern like an amateur.

The pattern is just sew two capes with snaps at the collar and maybe a hood. I sew the way I bake, which is not always the best approach as it produces not always the best results, but when something does turn out it’s magical because it’s certainly not due to hard work and know-how.

In lieu of a sewing pattern, I’m busy barring the door from villains like, oh, slimy bigots in suits wielding executive orders and golf clubs. My buddies must harness their own powers, along with all the rest of us.

We took the subway to 14th street. The train smelled like stale beer and Friday’s pepperoni pizza re-discovered on the fire escape Sunday morning. I checked my bag and was relieved to discover antibacterial stuff my nieces gave me for Christmas. I put some on my hands and wiped the excess on Raj. Seconds later I realized what I’d done. We were on our way to a Life Of Agony show covered in sparkles and smelling like candy.

Many years ago we saw Mina Caputo on the street somewhere in the Lower East Side. This was before or maybe during her transition. LOA wasn’t on my radar for a long time. Anyway my boyfriend melted into a giddy 14-year-old and just opened his arms (which Mina graciously dodged), expressing his love in happy expletives. It happened again last night only this time Mina was on stage and larger than life, holding an entire ballroom of lifelong fans.

We were in the presence of greatness. All at once the crowd surged forward and around and some very enthusiastic fisty dancers broke through into their happy place. This incredible band thrilled a lot of people yesterday as they finally gave the world new album. A Place Where There’s No More Pain iseverything I didn’t know I needed.

Mina Caputo performed with such confidence and swagger. Her voice is as powerful and gripping as ever. You can argue it’s even better but why bother comparing when all that matters is that they’re making great music again and now it’s coming from a good place. After months of empty horribleness, seeing them live filled me. I felt so lucky to be there. I never thought I’d get to see them perform. Now here they are right when we need them with a brand new album.

My sisters call me The Pusher. When something is good I just want everyone in the world to read it, hear it, taste it, do it, go experience it. I’m not allowed to push things on them anymore, they say. We have different tastes, they say. Fine, I say.

Their loss. But the show’s magic bubble hasn’t popped yet and I’m feeling the urge to … push. Listen to Life Of Agony. Check out their new album over and over. Go see them and have a good time. You don’t need to be a lifelong fan to appreciate the new album. This isn’t a nostalgia trip. They still have so much to say. And if you’re ever lucky enough to see any of them on the street, please give them our thanks and love but maybe don’t try to hug them.

Like this:

I thought I saw the best license plate this morning. I was alone and doing something I haven’t done in so long on a neighborhood run – listening to music. Volbeat. We’ve traveled hundreds of miles together, me on foot and them in my ears driving me on with big theatrical sound and lyrics full of drama. I used to worship the bands I loved. Now they feel like friends. They’ve been there through every incarnation. When we’re together I’m more myself.

So basically I was running with some of my friends, my singing playing friends, when we passed this truck and had to stop for a laugh. Clear as my eyes could see the license plate said: I DEMON NYC. Only all squished together.

For a moment this made me very very happy. Some special soul used “demon” as a verb on a license plate. For a moment I lived in a city where people declare they demon. I want to demon, too, if it involves anything more than tearing up the streets and filling my lungs with the yummy taste of hot tar. Okay. I read it wrong. The plate actually said something about Demo.

The blurred world is magical. This is why I don’t ever wear my glasses. They’ve never been the same since I sat on them anyway.

Elwyn Brooks White, better known as E.B. White, gave us Charlotte’s Web and Stuart Little. Journalism students may recall his work from a slim writing bible he co-authored, The Elements of Style. All three have a place of honor on what I introduce to guests as Grandpa’s Shelf. My paternal grandpa built this modest oak shelf in the early 1930s. It’s sturdy with a dark wood stain and three slightly upturned shelves. When my dad gave it to me I finally had proof that I’m his favorite child. This is the thing I grab if ever there’s a fire. Its very heavy so a brave, fireproof volunteer will be needed to grab the other end and make sure none of my books fall off while we haul it down the steep, narrow stairs.

I’ve lived in the city so long I’ve stopped counting the years. Yet White’s apparently famous 7500-word essay, since printed into a book, is new to me. ‘Here is New York‘ was first published in a 1949 issue of the lavish travel magazine Holiday. For his contribution, White left his home in Brooklin, Maine and returned to the city where he made his name.

I don’t usually seek out NY-centric reading, feels redundant, but spring is the hardest season for me to live here. Reading this essay is part of my on-going effort to enjoy the city again. May as well while we’re here. While not exactly the upper I was hoping for, it’s a quick (30-minute) read well worth checking out of the library.

I expected to follow White on a long, nostalgic walk through Manhattan’s various neighborhoods. I don’t know why I had such a specific assumption of this essay, there’s at least as much analysis of the city’s essence and people as there are physical observations. White writes gorgeous descriptions though. He details walking past a free evening concert in Central Park. Brass horns fill the evening and, as if in response, The Queen Mary blares it’s own off-key horn. You feel like you’re walking beside him, pleasantly aware there’s no other place you’d rather be.

I’ve seen this essay described as a love letter to the city. While his fondness is evident, his tone seemed like one of someone glad to be gone. New York is much easier to love from a distance.

The city is like poetry: it compresses all life, all races and breeds, into a small island and adds music and the accompaniment of internal engines.

White stays in the city during an August heatwave. For this he has my sympathy. Summers are abusive here. Even reading about summer in the city makes me itch. If you’ve never had the pleasure of walking through New York on a sweltering day, imagine every drop of will and hope oozing from your eye sockets while the grit and fumes off millions of well-dressed sweaty flesh bags seeps into your pores and solidifies until there’s very little of you left in your own body. Why not come in October instead?

So New York in August, 1948. White arrives to experience and reflect on the New York he used to know. Alas, visiting his old city is impossible; it’s already gone. Any longtime or former New Yorker can probably relate. The city you first meet is fleeting. Before you know it, walking down a block is consumed by remember whens. Looking at new buildings and businesses and people only reminds you of the ones no longer here.

White circles back to change being the only constant in a place always reinventing itself and never quite catching up. There’s nothing in this essay that doesn’t ring true. He captures it all in this thorough, timeless representation of the city as a living machine. It still feeds on yesterday’s dirty dogs. Today it spits out sleek predictability and $5 “punk rock” Popsicles, but has no clue what to do about the cracks, and there are so many cracks. Cracks and ghosts.

The normal frustrations of modern life are here multiplied and amplified-

The people who come here do so for a reason. Many find their tribe or relish the city’s “gift of loneliness and the gift of privacy” that White refers to in his opening line. Others tap into a bottomless source of inspiration and drive. With some chutzpah you can still get your foot on a stage or in a fancy office or wherever it is you want to be.

-but New Yorkers temperamentally do not crave comfort and convenience – if they did they would live elsewhere.

One section refers to the people who live or work here as composing three different New Yorks: that of commuters, of natives and of transplant dreamers. In considering post-war atomic fears, his thoughts on the city’s vulnerability to airplanes is an eerie prophesy of 9/11. A part that stood out addresses the city’s growing diversity. Imagine if we had a president today capable of believing and articulating this same sentiment:

The city has to be tolerant, otherwise it would explode in a radioactive cloud of hate and rancor and bigotry.

It was fun to learn that E. B. White and I have something small in common. We both worked as ushers in theaters – he at the Metropolitan Opera and me on Broadway. I loved ushering in college. Through it I met all sorts of people, had time to read and got to swap shifts to see tons of different shows. Highly recommended for students.

This little book gives its audience much to chew on. Readers who love the city will find more reason to love it. Those of us who no longer feel at home here will find camaraderie and validation. Still, like White and countless others, I’ll always remember the city as I knew it when I knew it.

On a blue sky Sunday morning I ran out to brush the snow off our car while Raj made banana pancakes and ground two of our favorite coffee beans into one smooth weekend blend. I waited five days to deal with the snow on our car because I could – alternate side parking was suspended. Also I had high hopes for a second shot at a real blizzard. Leaving the snow was like keeping the welcome mat rolled out. Then I remembered what the windshield guy said this past December.

On Christmas morning at my sister’s in Jersey, I stepped outside to find the back windshield of our car smashed. The shattered glass was still in place until a slight vibration, from some innocent angel closing one of the doors, triggered a festive shower of broken green glass into our back seat. Ours was one of several windows smashed on Christmas Eve. It took days to get it replaced and when the man finally came he gave us this big lecture on clearing snow from the glass otherwise risk the wrath of opposing temperatures when the sun hits it like a laser. His point didn’t apply to our situation (temperatures were nowhere near freezing and there was no snow). He didn’t have much to say about the guys who hang out at night in the woods behind her complex. Pretty sure they’re not roasting marshmallows. Anyway, I’ve been better about clearing our car when it snows just in case.

Okay, I’m not that much better. And the snow I intended to quickly shoo from our glass was actually sealed by a thick crust of ice. Our little scraper was no match. The funnest part was cracking the crust up like crème brûlée. Only instead of tapping deliciousness with dainty silver I punched through, feeling like one of the toughs who order their chocolate peanut butter recovery drinks with vanilla soy milk.

After pancakes we roamed. Weekend mornings are my favorite time for roaming. Sometimes there’s a fellow carrying two cups of coffee and a paper bag full of somethings you know are going to be good. He’s bringing those treats and coffee back to someone he loves or likes enough. Parents look less harried pushing strollers or watching a little one on a wooden bike with no pedals ride off on scurrying feet Flintstone style.

We roam in bright synthetics because it doesn’t feel like Sunday without going for a run. Sidewalks are my least favorite running surface, in case you’re wondering. Soon we reach the park and opt to run on the slushy trails. I’m happy for the breathing room and no piles of trash to hurdle over. Races are aplenty in the park starting around yesterday and continuing through November. They flood the park with Woo-ers and plastic cups. The best part is when runners stand around blocking the paths after they’re done.

Runners are my peeps and races are a huge source of encouragement for many. That’s great. I’m just not a fan of the ones in the local park every single weekend because they’re all so loud and messy. Oh, well. I recently discovered a new-to-me running route for most weekends. It’s much longer, race-free and spans a number of waterfront stretches.

On this final day of winter, Raj and I race each other on the home stretch. We’re nearly to the end when I hear the first bagpipes. They might be for the St. Paddy’s Day parade in our neighborhood. They might be Woo-ing me to the finish line seconds ahead. He says it’s hard to say who won. I say it’s easy: I won. I WON.

It’s tough coming home to Brooklyn in the summer, especially when the bright turquoise water along the Jersey shore is crystal clear and here the Feels Like at 7 pm is 92 degrees. Bleh. The cool thing is we don’t have to make food because it’s too hot to eat and don’t have to clean because it’s too hot to make a mess. Basically I’m a lump of sticky flesh surviving on cold coffee and my newest vegan concoction – creamy chocolate pudding with frozen blueberries. It’s good. I licked the bowl so clean my boyfriend thought it was clean and put it back in the cabinet.

My sister’s pool is seeing a lot of me this summer and, as mentioned before, I’m a little envious of her nice new mountain home. So imagine my surprise when my niece called. She wants to leave her wonderful pool and come visit me here in the city in the middle of summer. It’s not going to happen for many reasons including my broken refrigerator. This girl loves the city and thinks my apartment with its light wells, roof views and fire escape kitty is so cool.

Sometimes it is. Back in May, I began my next trip around the sun here. We used a Groupon for one of the sightseeing cruises, something I’ve never done before, and enjoyed Brooklyn and Manhattan as I like them best: from a distance. The tour guide on the boat talked more about the high rent than the city’s history or the structures we passed. He didn’t do the city justice, but the wind drowned him out anyway. It was a cool, windy day. Remember those? As you can see, hot coffee was the precious – they brewed us a fresh pot. Lady Liberty is photobombing this lovely picture of me and my sister/Mario-brother-in-a-froggie-suit lookalike. We forgive the trespass.

Posing with magical coffee again. Here I have a side mustache, very trendy now, and my hot date looks like a Bollywood movie gangsta.

It’s nice to be back in my own space. I can think straight and the water is drinkable right from the tap, which seems to be a depressingly rare treat in this region. My family and friends in NJ, NY and PA don’t seem to notice the smell and sour taste to their water. They take offense when I bring bottled, but it’s that or dehydration.

The city seems aware of its summer flaws. It knows how bad it smells, how how the crime rate spikes and how hard it is to see only concrete and buildings when so much of the country is in full bloom. In exchange it offers a library that rarely lets me down, except in the horror department, and all sorts of free outdoor cultural greatness. Before leaving, we were lucky enough to be in Brooklyn Heights and hear about the opera recital on the waterfront just a few hours before it began. It was part of Met Opera’s free Summer Recital Series, which is over now, but you can catch the free HD series in Lincoln Center come August.

Three singers performed a dozen or so arias and duets from Madame Butterfly, La Boheme and other famous operas. Much as I love going to The Met and seeing a full performance with the orchestra and elaborate costumes and sets, opera flexes its muscles outdoors, pared down to its purest.

As the sun finally dipped behind the skyline, the city fell in sync with the music so well it felt like a set. The performers waved to tourists on large sightseeing boats drifting by, seagulls glided over the river, children ran around. Rather than a curtain closing, the show ended with nightlights flicking on and those the opera left enchanted, wandering piers in search of cappuccino and pie.

I ran 16.54 miles on Saturday. This was a long, long time coming. We have to party, though I’d be content to sit on the pier with a cider and plate of nachos so loaded and soggy you have to eat them with a fork. And then papusas with curtido. Food is on the brain during long runs. My honey and I fueled up with a banana and shared a chia bar along the way. Simple, small amounts of food at a time work best for me before and during a run. Afterwards I’m a calorie monster.

I’d heard that there was some race going on in Prospect Park this weekend. Another race. We had a choice for our weekend long run: agitation or a change of scenery.

We woke up early and took the subway up to 125th street then walked over to waterfront path. This put us approximately 15 miles from home. Now all we had to do was run back.

The stretch along Manhattan’s entire west side offers cool breezes off the river and turbo people-watching. It’s a little too narrow in parts, considering the bike and foot traffic. Getting out early helps. At first there’s a lot of noise and fumes from all the vehicles on the West Side Highway, but once it opens up to Riverside Park there’s a pleasant amount of distance between the path and car traffic. Though straight and flat, the path didn’t feel monotonous. Running along moving water never does.

There are also plenty of open bathrooms that don’t have people living in them, which is good to know.The water fountains are still off, also good to know.

We had to break at the USS Intrepid aircraft carrier. This ship survived five kamikaze attacks and a torpedo strike during WWII. It’s one of the many museums I forget about. Then we were running by it and I was like Wow. It looks so real. And it is real. We didn’t bring a phone so no pics, but it’s going on our To-Gos now that we remember it exists.

The southern tip of Manhattan gets crowded first with people going to the Statue of Liberty, then the Staten Island ferry then South Street Seaport then the Brooklyn Bridge. By this time we were pretty tired so rather than huff and puff past, we took a much needed walk break. My stubbed toe is still being a baby. I think my ankle overcompensated because it started wobbling. Running felt better than walking – maybe less foot surface hitting the ground? We slowed our pace and ran most of the way home.

My love for Trader Joe’s grew a bit. We stopped there to get some gf bagels, but we also helped ourselves to free coffee and my honey had a sample of gnocchi, which perked him up for the rest of the run. At this point we were tired and didn’t realize we’d grabbed a bag of bagels with a hole in it. At the checkout, this sweet woman working there pointed it out to us, ran back and got us a different pack. She easily could’ve just dropped it in a bag and not said a word and we wouldn’t have noticed until getting home 2 miles later and hungry.

The only part of this run I didn’t love was crossing over the oily Gowanus Canal, a bubbling muse for toxic monsters. Whatever is down there – probably not water – it got us sprinting.

We didn’t set a time goal and my honey didn’t balk about the walk breaks when my ankle started singing. This was my favorite run of the year so far. Most of it was a physical struggle, but mentally I was determined to finally conquer this 15-mile block. Walk breaks weren’t even a question. My only goal was to get the distance in my legs.

Junk food swam through my head throughout the run, but after all I really wanted was cold , fresh fruits and veggies. Okay, and a milkshake. Then gentle yoga. I get super stiff everywhere after runs- stiff spine, stiff shoulders, stiff hip rotators, stiff hammies. Before daily yoga, I guess I was just stiff all the time and didn’t feel the difference.

Things are good in 15+ mile land. I’m still riding the energy buzz and my whole body feels like it’s breathing more. Any minute now the running faery will give me brand new feet and they shall never touch the ground. Until it’s time to chase 18 miles.